


you can have half

by vowelinthug



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Disney ripoff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 21:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12021621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: Flint wants to sleep. Silver wants the dog.--A 3x4 AU where the Maroon Queen separates Flint and Silver from the crew and lock them into their own cage.





	you can have half

**Author's Note:**

> this is the third in my unofficial series: gemma rips off Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean 
> 
> this could also be interpreted as a sequel to [not down on any map](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10028906). there's no mention of that fic in this, but it could easily follow it.
> 
> also this is a response, technically, to a tumblr prompt from [dimplesflint](http://dimplesflint.tumblr.com/), which was the title of this fic 
> 
> ...i guess that's everything

* * *

 

Flint understands the Maroon Queen. He sees the weight on her shoulders, her reasons behind every action with bright clarity. It’s as clear to him as a pack of sharks lurking beneath a still sea.

Keep the men away from the men in charge. It’s an obvious move. Don’t let their cages be visible to one another. Let the men in charge see their men being dragged away, and then never let them be seen again. No one can incite if the planners have no one to carry out their plans.

It’s a good plan. It maintains a steady level of fear and anxiety. Everyone feels cut off. It allows greater chances for one of the dumber or more nervous among them to slip up. It would be a great plan, if Flint gave a shit about any of this.

There’s no lie for the men to tell, so he doesn’t particularly care what they tell her, although he supposes he’d rather she didn’t torture them first before killing them. He doesn’t care about being separate from his men.

At this point, locked alone in a cage with Silver is as close to peace before dying as he could ever hope for. 

Not that Silver’s quite as ready to accept the inevitable as he is. Flint has watched him pace the cage like a cornered, injured animal, simultaneously lurching and prowling each corner. He’s looking for weak spots, or something that can be weaponized. He’s tried to get the attention of several of the Maroons, looking to talk, to bargain, to plead, to do whatever he thinks his mind has the capacity to do.

Flint leaves him to it. He’s no longer mad at Silver, and if he still sees some sort of solution, he has no reason to discourage it. Silver had tried to engage with him briefly, once they’d been left alone with nothing between them but a single roll of bread. Flint had been quick to shut him down, though. He wants no part in escaping.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Flint had said. “Not with just the two of us.”

“The two of us managed to capture a warship by ourselves,” Silver had hissed, snatching the bread roll off the ground. “We can get out of a wooden cage. We can talk our way out of here, there must be some way.”

“It wasn’t the two of us,” Flint had pointed out. “We had the whole crew coming to our aid. There’s no way out of this.”

Silver had stared at him for a long moment before biting out, “There’s _always_ a way.” He’d stalked over to his own side of the cage, and Flint had been ready to shut his eyes and fall asleep again, when Silver stomps back over.

“Here,” he’d said, shoving a piece of bread under his nose. “Take half.”

“I’m not hungry.”

 “ _Take_ it.”

Flint had taken it. Then he’d taken a small bite, watching Silver walk away without another word. The bread was hard and dry and sustaining.

When Flint had dozed off for the third time since the door had been locked, Silver had been pressing near the door, arms dangling through the bars, silently watching for something he can take advantage of. He’d already eaten all his bread. Flint hadn’t, but he didn’t discourage Silver from his plans. He’d been too busy falling asleep.

But when he wakes up, it’s fully dark, and Silver is still on the other side of the cage. This time, he’s on his hands and knees in the corner by the door. At first glance, Flint thinks he’s sick, but then he sees Silver has one arm stretched out the bar, and is murmuring, “Come on. _Come on._ ”

The piece of bread is still in Flint’s lax hand. He takes another bite. “What are you doing?’ he says, mouth full, not moving from his spot.

Silver doesn’t really jump, but he does bang his elbow trying to jerk his arm back inside. He turns on his knees to look at Flint over his shoulder. His hair is still tied, and the tail falls back over his other shoulder, exposing the dark corner of his neck, the sharp span of his shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything sarcastic or angry like “ _good morning”_ or “ _thanks for joining us._ ” In fact, he looks a little relieved to see Flint awake. He says, “There’s a dog.”

He turns back around, sticking his arm out of the cage again.

Flint doesn’t move. “Okay.” He finishes his bread, still chewing as he shuts his eyes again. But suddenly, he’s too aware of the night around him, the chirping of the crickets, the crackle of the fire, the lull of Silver’s coaxing voice.

He can’t bring himself to care about an angry Queen or a devastating hurricane or his dying men. But he finds himself opening his eyes again and asking, “Are you trying to _eat_ the dog?”

Silver doesn’t jump this time. He doesn’t bring his arm back in either. He does say, looking back again, “No. Don’t be disgusting.”

Then he adds, “We don’t have a fire to cook it.”

“Right,” says Flint. He’s pretty sure Silver hadn’t been too delicate to eat raw shark two days ago. He’s also pretty sure Silver still hadn’t learned to properly cook any kind of animal anyway.

“He’s got a key,” Silver says. “Look.”

It takes Flint a moment to gather the will it requires to move. When he’s finally able to shift to his feet and lean over, he feels like a boulder rolling, like the kind Sisyphus pushed up the mountain. His body is as unyielding and sore as a stone.

He doesn’t need to go all the way to Silver. He just has to tilt slightly to see the dog. It’s a mangy, yellow thing with a worried face and mud caked into its paws. Dangling from its brown, tarred teeth is a large brass ring. Hanging from the ring is a key.

The dog is about ten feet away from the cage. It’s growling at Silver, but isn’t attacking or running away. It seems content to sit there and snarl. Flint understands this dog.

“How do you know that key opens this door?” Flint asks.

“I don’t.”

“What are you trying to lure it with?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought you said escape was a terrible plan.”

“It _is,_ ” says Silver. “But sitting in here _napping_ is an even worse one. I’ve never in my life done anything without at least one backup plan.”

Flint thinks he’s supposed to contest that napping comment, or make a snide remark about Silver having no backup plan to save his leg, or argue that an escape plan was the only foreseeable option.

He moves back to his spot on the other side of the cage. He closes his eyes.

A silence, and then, “You’re not going to help?”

“I am,” Flint says, eyes closed. “I’m offering you moral support.”

A shorter, louder silence. “You _are?"_

“Well, I’m not telling you it’s a stupid idea,” says Flint. “Interpret that however you want.”

Silver doesn’t say anything to Flint. After another indignant silence, he begins to speak to the dog again.

Flint attempts to fall back asleep. It’s difficult this time, even though the exhaustion he feels has settled into his bones like rust, inescapable and spreading. He longs to be a boulder again. Unmoveable, unhurt.

He normally has a parade of horrors to lull him to sleep. Every failure, every cruel act of which he is both victim and perpetrator. The sight of Miranda on the floor. The sight of Gates of the floor. The sight of Thomas’s parlor, empty of Thomas. They tumble through his mind like an avalanche of misery, dragging him into unconsciousness.

When he’s feeling kind to himself, he’ll let himself contemplate his eventual demise in the attempt to calmly drift to sleep.

But right now, neither appear to be working. He can’t focus on sleeping. He’s too aware of the wood digging into his back, the hunger unabated by a piece of bread, the mosquito buzzing by his ear.

Silver’s voice.

“C’mon, darling, that’s it.” Silver’s low, deep, coaxing rumble filling the small cell. “You can do it, just a little closer.”

Flint has successfully slept through hurricanes. He’s slept through gun battles. He’s slept through Hal Gates’s snoring.

“You’re so close, beautiful, but you can come just a little closer. _That’s_ it, _good_ boy. Almost, now.”

Flint opens his eyes.

It’s a light night. The moon is almost full, reflecting well off the heavy clouds, and along with the fires of the camp and the stars above, Flint can see everything fine. He can see Silver’s perfect ass as he stretches out on his knees. It sways a little as he tries to press further into the bars. His trousers pull tightly, protesting the movement. His shirt hangs off his thinned body, and Flint can see the sharp line of his back pointing towards his tapered waist.

“C’mon, that’s it. Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy for Silver? You’re _so close_ , darling, c’mon, just a little bit -- _more_.”

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He can’t know what he’s doing.

Flint closes his eyes, then covers them with his hands and presses down. He wants to cover his ears, but there’s no way to do that without being completely obvious and totally insane. Besides, he doesn’t actually want to cover his ears.

Silver whistles softly, which makes Flint look up again. He’s moving back and forth on his knees, clicking his tongue against his teeth and murmuring lowly, “You’re such a _good_ boy. C’mere. A little closer, darling, _that’s_ it, you can do it.”

“Okay! Enough, for God’s sake!” With a speed he didn’t think himself capable of, Flint is over on the other side of the cage, wrapping a hand around the bar. “ _Dog_ , come here!”

But of course, the dog had run away, startled by the sudden movement and loud noise. Although Flint doesn’t realize it right away. He’s too busy focusing on the fact that he’s pressed himself to Silver’s back in an effort to get closer to the dog, with his cock digging obviously into Silver’s hip.   

They both freeze. Flint is panting in Silver’s ear, trying to remember how to move. Sisyphus has pushed the boulder up to the highest point, and now he’s hovering precariously, waiting for the moment he falls back down.

Silver slowly withdraws his hand from outside, and grips a bar tightly. He’s also breathing hard, and at this angle, Flint can’t see his expression. Then he cocks his head slightly, looking at Flint with just one eye, and now Flint can see it but he doesn’t understand it at all.

“You frightened it away,” Silver says, still a deep, soothing sound. Their faces are very close.

Flint can’t help but notice how warm Silver is against him, how real and how soft. He smells like an ocean Flint doesn’t think he’ll ever see again. Before, Flint had wanted to sleep to escape this reality. Now, he wants to press his nose into the nape of Silver’s neck and just _rest_.

“I tend to do that,” he says, sitting back on his heels, because while there’s a lot that Flint deserves, rest is not one of them. “With most things.”

Silver shifts, a little awkwardly because of the iron leg, until he’s facing Flint. Then he touches, so gently, Flint’s arm. He trails his hand up towards his elbow, over his shoulder, and Flint is so focused on its movement that he jumps when Silver’s other hand touches his face.

They’re very close again. Silver says, “Not all things.”

When Silver kisses him, it reminds Flint of his confession on the longboat, right before they found the sharks. At first, it’s a quiet thing, barely even a kiss. Just a graze of lips. But then Flint returns the faintest of pressure, like his question, begging to repeat it, and then the world stops around them as Silver pours everything he is into Flint. And he is filled with the same things he’d been then, filled with all the things Silver gave him: yearning and confusion and, finally, understanding. Finally, a way to keep moving. Except this time, Flint can speak too. He can confess everything to Silver than needs confessing, slipping it under Silver’s tongue like wine. He answers Silver with everything he’s got, and all they’ve got in this dark cage, in the night, are hands and lips and teeth and words.

“ _God,_ ” Silver moans, pulling Flint into his lap. “I’ve _missed_ you. I didn’t even realize there was a you to miss, until you were just _gone_ from me.”

Flint doesn’t know what to say, so he kisses Silver again, tugging his hair loose from its tie. He thinks maybe -- just maybe -- he might have missed himself a little, too.

Silver cups Flint’s cock through his trousers, and Flint breaks away from the kiss to groan. With one hand, Silver deftly unties the front, mumbling again now that his mouth is free. “I need you here with me, Captain,” he says, sliding his hand inside. “I can’t do this without you, please. Please stay here with me.”

Flint keens at the feel of Silver’s dry, warm grip moving over his cock, clutching the back of Silver’s head desperately. “I’m here,” he gasps, rocking up into his hand. “I’m here.”

He says it, and the way Silver shudders against him, moaning into his neck, makes him think he believes it. But Flint doesn’t think he really believes it himself until he gets his own hand on Silver’s cock. It is heavy and hot against his palm, the head smearing wetly as he drags his fingers down. He _wants_ again, wants for the first time in months, the feeling crackling through him like a hammer piercing stone. God, how he wants.

Flint kisses him again, because Silver’s mouth has that unbelievable power to make anything feel true, and Flint needs to feel true. His tongue has shaped impossible destinies, has altered uncharted courses, has formed unyielding bonds. His tongue can bring Flint back. His tongue can wake him up.

Silver’s hand matches the pace Flint sets on his own cock, the two of them grinding into each other senselessly. They kiss until they can’t anymore, and then they just pant into each other, eyes open and watching. Silver reaches up under his shirt, pressing his warm fingers against Flint’s empty stomach, trailing upwards until he finds the hard point of his chest and then lays his palm flat. Flint comes then, spilling onto Silver’s hand with a low cry.

“Say it again,” Silver begs, thrusting up into Flint’s hand faster, pushing down on Flint’s chest. He’s pressed against the side of Flint’s neck, breaths wet in the hollow of his throat. “ _Please_ , say it --”

He clings to Silver, one hand tangled in his hair, keeping him close. “I’m here, _I’m here,_ ” Flint murmurs, tightening his knees around Silver’s hips, as though the winds of another hurricane were trying to drag him away. When Silver comes, it feels like another confession. Like a revelation, like an evolution. An admittance to something they’ve both held deep in the center of themselves, ready to come out. And not a moment too late.

They hold each other for a moment, foreheads pressed together. He needs to move soon; even with the weight he’s lost, he can’t be light sitting on Silver’s lap. But Silver just leans back against the cage, making sure to pull Flint against him when he goes. Flint’s nose is in the crook of Silver’s neck, Silver’s chin rests on his brow. There should be more words, now. Explanations, maybe. Promises, unlikely. But for now, he wants to hold his last words in his mouth a little longer. He wants _I’m here_ to echo in his throat as long as it can.

A thud and a _whuff_ to the left, and they turn together to see the dirty yellow dog, standing beside the cage. It blinks at them with its worried eyes and then runs off, leaving the brass key just outside the bars.

Silver smiles, pulling his arms tighter around him. “Good boy.”

 

* * *

It’s not the key to unlock their cage.

And when, a few hours later, a man with a sword comes to take Silver away, so that he can speak with the Queen’s daughter, Flint finds himself being restrained as he rails wildly against it. Silver tries to calm him, to assure him with his eyes, but Flint can’t see it very well. The clouds have covered the moon, and it’s no longer very light.

And when he’s alone, he sharpens that key down, making it deadly and small enough to fit in the center of his palm. And as he works at it, he doesn’t think. He doesn’t think at all. He isn’t tired.

And when Silver returns to the cage, Flint drops the shiv into the dirt, so he can better take his face in his hands and kiss him hard, even as Silver tries to speak. “I’m fine,” Silver says between each shallow breaths. “I’m here.”

 

* * *

 


End file.
